


Dark House

by beetle



Category: Deadpool (2016), Deadpool (Comics), Deadpool - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Comicverse), Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Amazing Spider-Man (Movies - Webb)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Dark, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Desperation, Dom/sub Undertones, F/M, Family Secrets, Gothic, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, Homelessness, Human Experimentation, M/M, Marvel Universe, Mentions of Major Character Death, Mystery, Past Mary Jane Watson/Mr. Sabahnur, Past Mary Jane/Peter Parker, Past Wade Wilson/Carmelita Camacho, Romance, Smut, Spideypool - Freeform, Wade & Ellie Feels
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-19
Updated: 2017-07-30
Packaged: 2018-12-04 01:14:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11544363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: This time wasn’t going to be like last time. This time . . . this time, he was going to get the job. Going to make a good impression on whatever uptight, snot-rocket, pretentious Heathcliff owned thisWuthering Shites-pile of stones, and finally, finally—for at least the rest of the school year, hopefully—he and Ellie were going to have a safe and stable place to hang their baseball caps.For DarkWrittenWords: a bright and kindred spirit and a hell of an ARTZ-ist.





	1. Hallam Hall

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dww](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dww/gifts), [DarkWrittenWords](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkWrittenWords/gifts).



> Notes/Warnings: AU set in the present-day, with Victorian-Gothic atmosphere and mood (I hope). Timelines have been tweaked and ages tinkered with. Some rarepairs will rear their heads. Some people have their powers and some don’t. Some people will get powers and some won’t. Also? Magic.

 

 

[White]

{Yellow}

* * *

**Chapter 1: Hallam Hall**

 

“Daddy?”

 

Wade, sitting stock-still in the driver’s seat of his twenty-five years old POS car, was gazing out the dusty windshield at the large estate behind the high, gothic-looking, wrought-iron fence. Said estate was tall, austere, and imposing, constructed of brooding, near-black stone that swallowed light. Even the bright, white light of this overcast Wednesday morning.

 

There was no CCTV or intercom near the ancient, wide-open gate, yet Wade idled just outside those gates, hands throttling the steering wheel, dark eyes narrowed grimly, his scarred face set and resolute.

 

This time wasn’t going to be like last time. This time . . . this time, he was going to get the job. Going to make a good impression on whatever uptight, snot-rocket, pretentious Heathcliff owned this _Wuthering Shites_ -pile of stones, and finally, _finally_ —for at least the rest of the school year, hopefully—he and Ellie were going to have a safe and stable place to hang their baseball caps.

 

“Daddy. . . .”

 

All Wade had to do was try not to look as sullen and angry as he apparently always did—all too easy with his scarred-up mug, bitterness, and shit-attitude—and pretend to be a nice, humble, pleasant guy, who wanted nothing more from life than to work hard and take orders.

 

{Yeah. Uh-huh. We are _so_ fucked, dude,} Yellow decided, snorting his manic-angry laughter. White, however, merely sighed.

 

[It’s precisely that sort of attitude that keeps us from getting jobs. But we can’t afford to be proud and disdainful of potential employers, no matter how . . . unpleasant a bit of humility and brown-nosing is. We’re not twenty-two, anymore, and running wild on Black Ops kill-missions. _Nor_ are we twenty-six, and freshly booted _out_ of the army, spending our drunken days doing whatever we want, and our drunken _nights_ getting into fistfights and screwing whomever would have us for the meager contents of our wallet.]

 

Wade sighed, closing his eyes and briefly shutting out the sight of the large estate where, if he was lucky, he’d be spending the foreseeable future doing the kind of manual labor he’d once worked so diligently to avoid. The kind of work he’d thought was somehow _beneath_ being a cold-blooded, remorseless killer.

 

White was right.

 

{No, White’s _no fun_ ,} Yellow corrected snidely, only to laugh his most cynical laugh when the other Box sighed again, tired and despondent. {We shouldn’t even _be here_ —we should be at _Maggie’s_ , bullshitting with Weas and Fat Gandalf. Or maybe taking a job from the Board, like we haven’t done in six forevers. Maybe get our name back in the dead-pool regular, like it _used_ to be, and impress some of those not-too-picky pieces of ass that don’t turn their noses up at taking the D from—}

 

“ _Daddy_.”

 

Wade blinked. Then blinked again, shaking his head, and tuning Yellow out and reality in. He looked over at the passenger seat, down into Ellie’s round, dark eyes, automatically finding his best, least scary smile. The one that _only Ellie_ saw, anymore. “What’s kickin’, Chicken? You okay? Need to take a leak?”

 

Ellie thought it over carefully, then shook her head. “Nooooo. Do _you_?”

 

“Nope! Back teeth ain’t floatin’, _yet_ , Stinkerbell!” Wade made his gooniest face and Ellie giggled a little, quiet and careful, as ever. It was a sweet sound, but too cautious. Not the way a child _should_ laugh . . . even when that child’s entire life had been as . . . spare and uncertain as Ellie’s had been. Since she was born. Since Carm had started doing Horse and turning tricks without discrimination. Since she’d bounced _back_ into Wade’s life, crazier than ever, but with a pretty, big-eyed four years old with a shy manner and hopeful, hesitant smile that’d immediately leveled the wall around Wade’s cold, black heart.

 

Since Carm had, less than a day later, bounced right back _out_ of Wade’s life, leaving behind that four years old—a daughter he hadn’t even known existed—three hundred and seventeen dollars in crumpled bills, and a shakily-written letter for “Eleanor” that was tear-stained and smudged almost into illegibility.

 

Ellie had taken her mother’s sudden disappearance in stride and with such calm maturity, that the heart Wade had just rediscovered had shattered.

 

Not even five and the poor kid had already become used to being left behind by the one person she should’ve been able to count on no matter what. Had—it seemed—become used to being left with angry, awkward men she didn’t know for extended lengths of time, with little or no warning.

 

As he’d metabolized that realization, while holding his tiny-skinny, soundly-sleeping daughter in his arms—the fact that Ellie took him _and_ his fucked-up mug in stride too, spoke both well of her heart and courage, and poorly of Carmelita’s parenting “skills”—his long-underused heart had begun to ache so much, it felt as if he’d die.

 

 _What the fuck am I even_ doing? He’d asked himself, seeing his entire life, especially the past six years, with a crystalline and emotionless clarity. _This is_ my kid _and I didn’t even know she existed—wouldn’t have, if her crazy-ass mother hadn’t somehow tracked me down—let alone what kinda shit-show her life’s been till now. I helped make this perfect, innocent little angel, who didn’t ask to be dropped on this crap-ass planet, and she’s been living through God-alone-knows-what, while I’m getting drunk and blowing the little money I earn on whores. What the fuck have I been_ doing _? What_ am _I doing?_ What am I?

 

Yellow, never one for selves-reflection, had merely shrugged, uninterested in this existential dilemma. White, however, had come to the rescue with six simple but certain words.

 

[You’re her daddy. And that’s enough.]

 

And that had been _it_. The moment that Wade’s life began to take shape and form, have substance and meaning. That was the moment he started to _matter_ for a reason beyond his own wanton destruction of himself and everything he touched.

 

He was this little girl’s _daddy_. Her protector. The only one who could and _would_ make sure she got the safe and happy life that _every_ child deserved.

 

That was his only job, his life’s only mission, the _only_ _thing_ he was on this planet for.

 

 _Ellie_.

 

In the two and a half years since that revelation, Wade had, with the kind of focus, determination, and relentlessness that’d made him a Special Forces _bad-ass_ by twenty-three, and until he was dishonorably discharged three years later, he’d turned his life around not for himself, but for the little girl who deserved more than anyone in this world could ever give her.

 

Well, he’d _tried_ to.

 

He’d stopped drinking, and taking violent and unsavory jobs from the Board. Stopped with the violence, altogether, eventually, except for some bouncer-rotations at _Sister Margaret’s_ , whenever the regular muscle wasn’t available. He’d stopped the whoremongering—not due to any moral rejection of the world’s oldest profession, but because he had no intention of blowing his hard-earned cash on something that didn’t ultimately benefit his little girl—and even found a better place to live. Still in the ass-end of Upstate New York. Still a one bedroom (and that bedroom went to Ellie, but Wade didn’t mind sleeping on the fold-out couch in the living room at all. After the army, he could sleep pretty much anywhere. And had). But in a safe-ish neighborhood that wasn’t too ugly or mean.

 

Unfortunately, odd-jobs hadn’t, in the end, been enough to support a grown man living on the right side of the law. And certainly not one with a child. Not in the good ol’ US of A (because with his dishonorable discharge, it would be even tougher finding work back in Canada). And Wade’s reputation and criminal record, as well as his lack of education beyond tenth grade, extreme survival, killing, and shooting/blowing shit up, weren’t as marketable on the legal end of the job spectrum.

 

Until, after more than two years of scrambling, and hand-to-mouth living, Wade had found himself and his precious little angel out on the street, with nothing to their names but some now-dirty clothes, Ellie’s few books and toys, the odd weapon Wade still had from the Good Ol’ Days and hadn’t sold, bartered, or lost, and the POS car he’d bought from a friend of Fat Gandalf’s last March.

 

And, of course, the estate that lay before them like something out of a close adaptation of a Bronte novel.

 

“Daddy,” Ellie said again, soft and reassuring, placing her small hand on his tense forearm and squeezing. “It’ll be all right. You’re smart and tough and nice and a good daddy, and you’re gonna get this job and you’re gonna be _so happy_. And we’re not gonna have to move around or sleep in the car anymore, and maybe one day, we can get a kitten!”

 

Wade chuckled, even though the backs of his eyes were burning fiercely. It was fairly shameful to him how often Ellie wound up comforting him, when it should’ve been the other way around. So, pasting on his best smile, again, he looked over at his angel and mussed her poofy-frizzy dark curls, then tweaked her little pug nose. She giggled and swatted his hand. “ _Daddy_! Get your _own_ nose!”

 

“Ah, _everyone_ knows it’s an _Ellie-nose_ for good luck!” Wade claimed, making a motion like putting something in his jacket pocket. Ellie giggled again, pushing stray curls out of her sweet, pretty face. “I just hope I don’t wind up with a pocket fulla boogers, instead!”

 

“Daaaaa-deee!” Ellie made a grossed-out face, but was still giggling. “I blew my nose before we left Uncle Jack’s! It’s _clean_!”

 

“Nah, kiddo, it _snot_ ,” Wade insisted with a straight face that cracked when Ellie rolled her eyes and groaned. In Wade’s opinion, one of the greatest perks of being a dad was the horrible jokes he had carte blanche in making and the knowledge that, groan, though she did, Ellie’s caramel-colored cheeks were still red and round with barely-repressed laughter.

 

“Your jokes are _terrrrrrrible_ ,” she complained, giggles escaping her pursed and pouting mouth. Wade freed his right hand from the wheel again and tugged on one of her springy, sable curls.

 

“Yep. Only the terrible-est jokes for _my_ little senorita!”

 

Ellie rolled her eyes again—she’d picked it up from Wade fairly early in their relationship—and Wade chuckled once more.

 

“All right, Ellie-vator, let’s go see about this job!” he chirped with put-on brightness, shifting the car into gear and easing his way up the long, curving gravel driveway.

 

“Yay!” Ellie exclaimed, only _her_ brightness was quite sincere. Even after so many failures and let-downs, his little girl never lost faith in her daddy.

 

 _I’m_ gonna _get this job_ , Wade decided, with no room for naysaying. Even Yellow didn’t dare to contradict him, merely heaving a sigh of his own, while White offered calm encouragement and gentle advice on his self-presentation.

 

“And after you get the job, can we get Tofutti? To celebrate?” Ellie bounced in place, held securely by her seatbelt. Wade quirked a fond smile as he shook his head in delighted wonder. His kid was so _weird_ , sometimes, and he wouldn’t trade her for the whole goddamn _universe_.

 

“Sure can, Ellie-belly! Any flavors ya like!”

 

“Yay!”

 

Wade made sure to not let his smile fade as the gothic-pile got closer, despite his lingering reservations about damn-near everything. He answered Ellie’s enthusiastic chatter about Tofutti, if the estate house was actually a _castle_ , and if there were maybe bigfoots living on the property, with honest, if distracted replies.

 

And then, far too soon, the house was looming over them like sheer fucking _doom_.

 

{We’re so fuuuuh-ucked,} Yellow informed him again, singsong, and sullen already, and edging Wade into that state by close association.

 

But, once more, White came to Wade’s assistance. [Perhaps you should take a nap while we interview, then? That way, you’ll be refreshed and relaxed for Tofutti,] he suggested guilelessly, as Wade drew to a stop at the front of the house, uncertain of where to park. The garage butting the south side of the house—manor—probably had room, but Wade wasn’t sure if the owner would pitch a bitch about Wade’s clunker keeping company with his Maseratis or Aston Martins, or whatever. Being presumptuous was _never_ a good first impression, after all. Even Wade didn’t need White’s kindly clucking to tell him _that_.

 

But then, considering the state of Wade’s car, the owner probably wouldn’t want it right in plain view while on his property, for anyone and everyone to see. Though not exactly welcoming or attractive, the manor _was_ quite impressive. Having his piss-yellow, Ozone Layer-destroying, gas-guzzling scow detracting from that impressiveness was probably not a good first impression for Wade to make, either.

 

{Damned if ya do, damned if ya don’t,} Yellow noted callously and without much interest, while White wrung his figurative hands from indecision.

 

Just as Wade was debating the wisdom of his two options, the front door of the house opened and a slim guy of average height and pleasantly forgettable looks stepped out, smiling and waving at Wade like it was old home week. Sighing, Wade risked shutting down the car—as always, sending a plea out into the wide, indifferent universe that the POS started again when it was time to leave—and aimed a brief, bright smile Ellie’s way. She returned it, showing off a few gaps in her small, blunt teeth.

 

“He looks like he’s a _very_ _nice boss_ ,” she whispered with innocent certainty. Wade loved her even more in that moment than he ever had, which was saying quite a lot.

 

“He sure does, honey-bunny. Sit tight, till I come open your door.”

 

“’Kay, daddy.”

 

Wade darted in to kiss the tip of Ellie’s nose then, taking a deep, steadying breath, opened the creaking, loud driver’s side door. He levered his tall, streamlined body out of the car and leaned for a moment on the frame. (He’d used to, once upon a military career, be ridiculously _built_ , just from routine exercises, workouts, and conditioning. But over the past several years of budgeting meals and having no time to work out due to actual _work_ , plus not wanting to waste a minute at the gym, when he could be with Ellie, Wade’s body had reverted to its more natural, runner-lean muscle-mass. A marked difference from the bordering-on-‘roid-y beefcake body of his late teens and early twenties.)

 

He glanced up at the blue-and-white, overcast fall sky, then back at the approaching man.

 

“Morning!” the guy called in a low, warm surprisingly masculine tenor, as he quickly halved the distance between himself and Wade’s car. But for that compelling voice, he was still utterly unremarkable. He was wearing a dowdy outfit of lived-in Dockers, a blue button-down shirt, and comfortable-looking tan moccasins. His messy, unstyled hair was mousy-brown, fine, and dead straight, flying every which way in the wind and occasionally revealing a slight widow’s peak. That somewhat unusual detail lead down to a face which was longish and friendly, in an every-man sort of way, straight brows that were rather expressive and waggly, a short, high-bridged nose, and a strong chin and jaw. His eyes were dark, probably brown, and his mouth was wide and mobile, as if he was mere seconds away from smiling, or laughing. Or maybe even exclaiming: “By George! I’ve solved it!”

 

 _He just has that kind of face,_ Wade supposed, more than a bit amused at his unusually fantastic sizing-up of the guy. Shaking his head, he shut the car door and walked around the front of the car, which was still throwing off heat like a reactor. He automatically held out his hand for shaking as he closed the remaining distance between himself and the guy, who was now beaming at Wade as if at visiting family.

 

“Uh, morning,” Wade said politely, holding back an also automatic “sir,” since he didn’t yet know if this was his would-be employer. “I, uh, have an appointment here at eleven-thirty to interview for the groundskeeper position? I’m Wade W. Wilson.”

 

“Of course! Glad to meet you, Wade!” the guy said, still warm and welcoming. A motion back near the front door of the manor caught Wade’s eye. Shuffling reluctantly down the walk was a scowling, bean-pole of a boy, wearing all black. He appeared to be somewhere between thirteen and fifteen years of age, with skin so pale, exposure even to this overcast day was probably not good for it. His square, but sharp-featured face was dominated by long, obliquely slanted eyes so dark, they seemed like holes in his paper-white skin. Heavy, shoulder-length, blue-black hair—dyed, undoubtedly—stirred slightly, almost indolently in the stiffish breeze.

 

Even from a distance, Wade could tell the kid was wearing make-up . . .eyeliner, eyeshadow, and lipstick.

 

 _Black_ , of course.

 

{Well, well . . . whoever claimed Bela Lugosi was dead, clearly _hasn’t_ been to Wuthering Shites!} Yellow snarked. White merely groaned and sighed, and kept his own counsel.

 

“You’re a little early, but that works out well, since the applicant before you had to cancel suddenly,” the guy was saying as he stopped just outside of Wade’s personal space, his long, capable hand reaching for Wade’s.

 

Wade took it without hesitation, surprised at the firm, but precise shake, but giving as good as he got. The guy smiled wider, big and bright as a movie star, but still friendly and a bit hapless. And so _boyish_ , Wade downwardly revised his guess of the guy’s age from a well-preserved forty, to a youthful thirty-five. “Ah. That’s, uh, unfortunate for him, I guess,” he said, stilted and nervous. That boyish smile gained a crooked quirk on the right side, showing off a deep dimple in that cheek and making the guy’s eyes—not just brown, but some shifting color that was sort of golden-brown and sort of grey-brown, depending on the shift and play of light—seem to shimmer and flicker.

 

{Huh,} Yellow said quietly, seeming startled, and increasingly uneasy the longer Wade gazed into those eyes . . . which gazed right back, curious and luminous.

 

[Well, a staring-contest with our potential employer isn’t a very good first impression, either,] White huffed in annoyance, and Wade flushed, cleared his throat, and tore his gaze away from the guy’s. But not before that smile widened in gentle bemusement.

 

“Ah . . . hmm,” the guy half-rumbled, half-chuckled. At that same moment, Wade noticed he was still holding the subtly strong hand—or the guy was still holding _his_. Just holding, not shaking. And he didn’t seem to be in a hurry to let go, either. “That’s an impressive grip you have.”

 

“Oh, uh, sorry, buddy,” Wade mumbled, freeing his hand from the warm, easy clasp that slowly released him. He darted a look back up at the guy’s ordinary face just in time to see those extraordinary eyes glint almost blue-ish-grey as the clouds overhead parted briefly. The waggly eyebrows above them danced as those _eyes_ scanned Wade with suddenly scalpel-keen intensity.

 

Wade flushed vermillion, remembering with a jolt that his face was covered in livid, jagged scars—the only souvenirs of he had left of his military career, besides those few weapons he’d managed to hold on to. Even after four years of living with his ugly mug, he still managed to forget, especially when it was just him and Ellie, that he had a face that only an angel like his daughter, who was all kind and open heart, could love. Or even tolerate.

 

To everyone _else_ , Wade was just . . . painful-looking. An object-lesson. An extreme case of _there but for the Grace_. . . .

 

Someone who was always marked and noticed, but then always dismissed as quickly as possible.

 

No one but Ellie was ever _not_ unhappy to see his face. And yet. . . .

 

This guy didn’t seem put off by Wade’s scars. Oh, he _noticed_ them, beyond a doubt. But he didn’t seem disgusted, shocked, prurient, or pitying. His gaze was assessing, but Wade sensed that the scars didn’t particularly make any impression on him. They were part of the landscape, so to speak, like Wade’s longish nose, prominent cheekbones, and wide mouth. All of which were crisscrossed with scars, but also partially obscured by chin-length, purposely messy, dishwater-blond hair.

 

Usually that, coupled with Wade’s drawn-in, defensive posture, screamed: _Nothing here worth lingering over. Move along_.

 

But—as he’d been lectured by White and Weas and Fat Gandalf and that weird old blind lady who hung out at the laundromat—flying under the radar never got _anyone_ a good job.

 

So, Wade squared his shoulders and held that shifting gaze as he’d held that sure grip. For long moments, all there was, was doing his best not to flinch from that penetrating stare and letting this guy take his measure for as long as necessary.

 

Until the guy laughed and blinked, and that laser-focus was shuttered—put away behind the friendly, hapless, camouflage-gaze once more, like some sort of magic trick. Even the guy’s eye color seemed to shade more toward a low-key grey-brown than that flicker-of-reflected-sky-blue. Wade’s own plain brown eyes widened and he had a moment of strangely pleasant vertigo.

 

But only a moment. And it passed quickly.

 

[Huh.] White echoed Yellow quite without meaning to, then also fell into thoughtful, watchful silence.

 

“My bad, sorry,” Wade mumbled again, because he couldn’t think of anything else to say and, as far as he knew, no one ever got the boot for a deferential apology for absolutely nothing. The guy shook his head dismissively and started to speak. But just then, the black-clad teen joined them with a huff and a near-visible cloud of jaded attitude. He was staring at the ground as if it held the secrets of the universe. The guy rolled his changeable eyes with genteel exasperation, then focused on Wade again.

 

“With a solid, honest grip like _that_ , Wade W. Wilson, what’s to be _sorry_ for? A steady gaze and a firm handshake makes a _powerful_ first impression. On _me_ , anyway. And you were already pretty high in the applicant-ranking, just for showing up and not being stoned.” The guy was the one to clear his throat, now, his brow furrowing slightly. “Anyway! Welcome to Hallam Hall, the wonder of Fleming County! _This_ chipper and chatty young fellow is my nephew, Evan Sabahnur—”

 

“ _Genesis_ ,” the boy muttered on the back of an angsty, gusty sigh, his space-dark eyes ticking to Wade’s for a moment before they fluttered shut in utter world-weariness. “I keep _telling_ you, Pete, it’s _Genesis_ , now.”

 

“—and _I’m_ Professor Peter Parker,” the guy went on blithely, quite unfazed by the sulky interjection. He gave Wade a brief and hooded once-over that made him shiver for no reason he could put his finger on. Especially when that quirky smile and random dimple deepened. Then the professor laughed again, slinging an arm around his sulky nephew, who heaved another dramatic, resigned sigh. “But, ah, feel free to call me _Pete_. Everyone does, apparently.”

 

TBC


	2. Introductions and Impressions . . . First, Second, and Third

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _For almost half a minute, that feeling of buzzing and crawling on his skin intensified, became almost unbearable for an eternal, fever-pitch moment. The lock-picking sensation in Wade’s skull also intensified, but in a muffled sort of fashion. Testing and probing, as if the lock-pick was weighing difficulty and demands on their time, against the necessity of getting into the room at the center of Wade’s mind. . . ._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes/CW: Wade’s unsavory past haunts him. Yellow gets a bit . . . threaten-y (and a bit horny). White broods, Evan seethes, and Ellie and Peter are quite lovely and sweet.

**Chapter Two: Introductions and Impressions . . . First, Second, and Third**

 

[White]

{Yellow}

 

For a few moments, as Professor Parker smiled up into his eyes, from his—not surprisingly—average height of five-ten or so, Wade could only stare into that changeable gaze as one mesmerized. The same went for Yellow.

 

White, however, was still wary and now more suspicious than ever of the man . . . a sentiment usually held by Yellow and for reasons that involved danger either to Wade or Ellie.

 

But whatever the unusually prickly White Box was picking up on, Yellow wasn’t sensing in the slightest. Neither was Wade for that matter. All he could do was stare down into Parker’s gray-brown/gray-blue eyes as if trying to make them settle on a color from sheer concentration.

 

Through it all, he felt another gaze on him, curious, piercing, and unexpected. Parker’s paper-pale, goth-dressing nephew, Evan, was studying Wade’s face carefully with those space-dark eyes. No, he was studying _Wade_ , as if he was some confounding bit of startlement shown up to confuse his day. That gaze felt like bees on his skin and ants in his brain. Like buzzing and crawling—or like Wade’s mind was a lock that was being slowly and almost negligently picked. As if the lock-pick didn’t particularly care about getting in, but was simply doing what they did out of habit. Or merely trying to keep their hand in.

 

At last, Wade—frowning and, for some reason, imagining his mind as a crammed-full, junky, and shadowed room with a single locked entrance, hurried to throw not just one deadbolt, but two, and also shoved a chair under the knob—finally tore his gaze from Parker’s crazy-colored eyes and met Evan’s glittering four a.m. ones.

 

For almost half a minute, that feeling of buzzing and crawling on his skin intensified, became almost unbearable for some eternal, fever-pitch moments. The lock-picking sensation in Wade’s skull also intensified, but in a muffled sort of fashion. Testing and probing, as if the lock-pick was weighing difficulty and demands on their time, against the necessity of getting into the cluttered and unimportant room at the center of Wade’s mind.

 

Then, with a small, petulant frown, Evan Sabahnur huffed and looked down at the ground again, a muscle at the left corner of his mouth ticking flicker-fast.

 

The lock-picking and buzzing/crawling stopped as if they’d never been, and Wade blinked away momentary, but intense vertigo, drawing a deep breath while White and Yellow exchanged moods as if tossing objects back and forth. Yellow’s capricious, suspicious— _paranoid_ as any old, off-the-grid shut-in—mind zeroed in on the boy like a sniper rifle. White, on the other hand, curious, empathetic, and ponderous, did the same, only with kinder intent.

 

[I wonder why Evan’s home on a school day. Perhaps he’s sick? He _is_ rather pale,] the ever-calm Box fretted quietly, as if Wade’s brain had suddenly become a cathedral and a lowered voice was not only instinctual, but optimal. [I wonder where his parents are. . . .]

 

{Surprisingly, the number of actual fucks I give about that brat’s health or home-life is negative-zero,} Yellow gritted out in an unusually flat and genuinely deadly tone.

 

Another right-side tick to Evan’s wide, thin-lipped mouth and those abyss-dark eyes met Wade’s again. There was no lock-pick feeling, no buzzing/crawling . . . just the sudden sensation that he was being viewed through a lens larger than any teenager could or should possess. Being weighed, measured, and _quantified_ by a viewpoint so vastly alien and blandly inhuman, it made him feel as if he was tumbling through darkness. Not just any darkness—not of an unlit room or the bottom of the sea or even outer space . . . but of something far darker and stranger . . . something as spiraling as entropy and endless as eternity.

 

And, for all that, as heavily empty as unleavened despair.

 

Evan blinked and that sensation, too, was gone. When his eyes opened again a nanosecond later, they were aimed at the ground once more. He heaved a tired, bored sigh and muttered something under his breath, like any sullen, bratty teenager, but Yellow didn’t buy it for a second. Neither did Wade and White.

 

The question became . . . _what_ , exactly, was that practiced front covering? And what, if anything, did it mean for Wade and Ellie, should Wade even get the job?

 

[Cart before the horse,] White reminded him sanguinely, while Yellow began resolutely piling more shit in front of the door to Wade’s mind-room.

 

“. . . um, there’s a small, adorable child flailing in the passenger seat of your car,” Parker noted with dry bemusement as Evan exuded dissatisfaction under his arm. He and Parker were the same height, though the former’s growing years were still somewhat ahead—just judging by his bony-solid frame—Wade was certain. Parker’s were well behind him.

 

“Whah?” Wade began, even as he remembered Ellie. Parker was leaning to Wade’s left and waving at the car cheerily.

 

“Hello, small, adorable child!” he called and, under his other arm, Evan closed his eyes and shook his head wearily.

 

“Ah, yeah,” Wade said, blushing and turning toward his POS. Ellie was, indeed, pressed against the window, her bright eyes wide and excited as she waved at them. The sudden and reassuringly strong burst of affection, protectiveness, and amazement he felt for and at his little girl was enough to settle Wade’s jangled nerves and make Yellow pause in the midst of shifting something big, dark, and cold—which felt like the memory of Wade’s first kill—toward the door of the mind-room. After a few moments of surprise and consideration, Yellow left that heavy, hollow memory where it fell, and went for something else. Something far different.

 

The memory of the first time Wade had held Ellie in his arms while she slept—while Wade’s heart had expanded in a way that was frightening, painful, and the great blessing of his life, after Ellie, herself—went in front of the door, light as air, but in its own way an unmovable sentinel.

 

White, meanwhile, quietly shuttled the kill-memory, pulsing with bright, panic-red darkness, back into the corner from where Yellow had retrieved it, without hesitation or comment.

 

“Hey, there, Stinkerbella! Almost forgot about ya! Wouldn’ta found ya till spring, and you’da had squirrels living in your hair and acorns stored in your ears!” Wade exclaimed when he opened the door. Ellie giggled and unbuckled her seatbelt, then hopped out. Like her mother, Wade’s angel was petite, but had grown a bit out of the skinniness of her toddlerhood and into a cute pudginess that suited her far more. Grinning, Wade scooped Ellie up into his arms and kissed her round cheeks and forehead. “C’mon, honey-bunny, best manners, okay? Time to meet Professor Parker.”

 

“Okay, Daddy!” she enthused, wrapping her arms around his neck as he shut the car door.

 

Wade turned back toward Parker and Evan, who now stood apart, though not far. Peter was still bemused, his eyes ticking from Wade’s face to Ellie and back again, flickering almost golden-brown with warmth and approval. Next to him, arms crossed over his bony, but deep chest, Evan was scowling at the ground again.

 

“Hi!” Ellie exclaimed as Wade stopped a polite distance from Parker and Evan. Evan huffed and glanced up at Ellie with the expected teenage disdain, only for his eyes to widen in surprise and uncertainty . . . then narrow as if he suspected some sort of trick was being played on him.

 

“Hello, there!” Parker replied brightly, bending a kind and charmed smile on Ellie, one that was as steady and beneficent as a small and gentle sun. He even held out his long hand to her. Ellie took it without hesitation, giving as good as she got. Parker winked at her, then glanced at Wade. “She’s a chip off the ol’ block. Got a good firm shake.”

 

“Thankfully, that’s _all_ my little princess got from her old man,” Wade said, snorting. Parker’s brows lifted and his eyes flickered again, gray-blue, then gray-brown. Wade flushed under that candid scrutiny and looked down, clearing his throat. “Anyway. Professor Parker, Evan, this is my daughter, Eleanor. Ellie-honey, this is Professor Parker and his nephew Evan.”

 

“Hiya, Professor Parker! Hiya, Evan!” Ellie said, no doubt beaming her gorgeous, gap-toothed grin, all innocence and wonder and molecular-level _goodness_. Wade had, from the second he’d laid eyes on this child—who looked nothing like him, and everything like her pretty, crazy mother—known that she was his, and yet . . . perfect beside that. _Right_ in a way that no one Wade had ever met was. From that moment, staring at the woman and child on his doorstep, both looking tired and uncertain, he’d _known_ that not only was this beautiful, flawless angel-baby _his_ , but that she was the all the sense his world had resisted making until that point.

 

“I’m very pleased to meet you, Miss Eleanor,” Professor Parker said, bowing jauntily over her small hand like an old-fashioned gentleman. Ellie giggled and bowed back, and Wade, rolling his eyes fondly, bowed with her just to keep equilibrium. Or so he told himself. “And if your Dad doesn’t mind, you can call me Pete.”

 

Ellie glanced up at Wade for permission and Wade, never one to stand on formalities just because of age, glanced at Parker, then shrugged and smiled. “Sure. But he’s still a grown-up, so remember your manners, Ellie-pie.”

 

“I will, Daddy,” Ellie promised solemnly, then hugged Wade’s neck for a few moments before looking back at Parker. Then she turned a little more to look at Evan, who was watching her intently. Wade almost turned so she could see him better, then remembered that buzzing/crawling sensation on his skin and the lock-picking in his brain. Remembered, and held his baby a little closer, turning her away from Evan a bit.

 

Yellow shouldered his way to the forefront of Wade’s consciousness—moved through the blocked door of the mind-room like a wraith, only solid, too. Tall and gangling and ghastly, all teeth and claws and murder.

 

{Not her, _Genesis_ ,} the Box hissed quietly, Wade’s eyeballs throbbing with the intensity of Yellow’s deadly-sharp focus. His arms around Ellie tightened. There were few things in this world that Yellow gave half a shit about. Very few. But one of those things—askew and manic, or non-demonstrative and dismissive though the Box could be about her—was Ellie. The Box was fiercely, possessively protective regarding her. Not the logical, sentimental appreciation of Ellie’s sweetness that White had and which had been fostered by time and a tender sensibility. No, Yellow’s love was all gut and blood. If Ellie turned into Charles Manson tomorrow, Yellow would still be protective and possessive. Would still be in her corner like a rabid Rottweiler on PCP. He’d take _pride_ in the fact that Ellie was a big-name predator on par with one of the most famous in history. And he would _never_ not be utterly, irrevocably on her side. { _Never_ her. You even _touch_ her, body or mind, Azrael Abyss, and I’mma spend seven straight weeks skinning you alive. And after that . . . I’mma get _mean_.}

 

That four a.m. gaze, curious, calm, and empty, met Wade’s for a moment, almost as if Evan had heard—but of course, he hadn’t. He _couldn’t have_. He was probably just sick of staring at some little kid he didn’t know from manners, and just letting his gaze go back to Wade’s unfortunately interesting face.

 

He seemed like the morbid type.

 

A complicated expression, rueful and amused, tired and ancient moved across that square, angular face and Evan actually _smiled_ a bit. More a twitch of the corners of his mouth, than anything, and his eyes were far too intense to be anything like happy. But there was something of an armistice in the dark, troubled glitter of his gaze and wry quirking of his wide mouth. A weary détente that said despite his prior barely-polite reception, Evan Sabahnur was perhaps willing to upwardly revise his estimate of Wade.

 

“Huh,” the kid huffed, his eyes drifting down to the ground once more.

 

“I like your make-up, Evan,” Ellie said earnestly, and Evan’s brow furrowed. But when Peter elbowed him pointedly, Evan snorted.

 

“Yeah, thanks, I guess. Uh, Eleanor,” he added with yet another sigh, this one the least discontented Wade’d heard from him, yet.

 

“You can call me Ellie!”

 

Another there-and-gone twitch of Evan’s ungenerous lips.

 

“Uh-huh. I’ll get right on that, squirt,” he said, finger-gunning Ellie ironically, his voice light with mild sarcasm and a bit of condescension. But it was nothing _any_ older kid wouldn’t level on a younger kid whose head it’d go right over.

 

Yellow’s hackles lowered and the claws were retracted . . . but not the teeth. The Box was on— _haha_ —yellow alert like it hadn’t been since the last time Wade’d taken a gold card from _Maggie’s_. Said gold card had ended with Booth digging a bullet out of Wade’s right shoulder less than a day later, while Wade guzzled cheap, oily rotgut straight from the bottle in one of _Maggie’s_ back rooms. The rotgut had been all he could afford after paying Booth to remove the bullet, and paying his flavor of the week working girl for a whole night of her time.

 

Despite the sharp-dull-sharp ache and throb of the GSW, Wade—well, Yellow, mostly—had put his back into the girl and gotten his money’s worth from her. And then some, considering his practically-nil refractory time and stamina.

 

{Fuck, I missy pussy,} Yellow sighed sadly, but with resigned equanimity. Wade hadn’t had sex with anyone since a couple nights before Carm had showed up with Ellie two and a half years ago. Hadn’t, though she’d offered, had sex with _Carm_. Not because he didn’t want to—though he _hadn’t_ wanted to . . . not that that’d _ever_ stopped him. His dick did what it wanted regardless of his brain’s cautioning—but because the last thing he needed was anything Carm might’ve been carrying.

 

He couldn’t afford to risk getting the Clap or worse when he had a kid depending on him. Not then and certainly not now.

 

[We all miss pussy,] White reassured its companion blandly, rather disingenuously. From the beginning, the Box’d had a tendency to absent itself from Wade’s and Yellow’s psyches as much as possible when sex of any kind was being had. Even if Wade’s mambo-partner was just his right hand. [But much like alcohol, it’s something we can’t help but overindulge in, once we’ve had a taste. This isn’t the time for anything that hints at impropriety or lack of control. Not when our situation is so . . . precarious.]

 

{Ugh,} was Yellow’s all-purpose reply to anything that smacked of propriety or its necessity. Wade bit back a smile and tuned back into the conversation between Ellie and Parker.

 

“. . . dunno if there’re any cryptids on the property, Ellie, but I wouldn’t put it past this place,” Parker said with a chuckle.

 

“What’s a cryptid?” Ellie asked, not even stumbling over the unfamiliar word. Wade’s kid was smart for _any_ age and endlessly curious, too.

 

Parker’s eyes lit up and Wade sensed a moment of fanboying directly ahead. “Ah, cryptids are animals that we’re not sure exist. Like Bigfoot, or the Chupacabra, or—”

 

“Unicorns?” Ellie piped up with adorable hope. Parker’s eyes acquired that gentle, warm gold-brown flicker and he winked at her.

 

“Mm-hmm. Unicorns, too,” he agreed with affectionate generosity.

 

“Ugh,” Evan said, echoing Yellow’s comment of a few moments before.

 

“Is your house a _castle_ , Pete?” Ellie further asked, her voice awed as she looked up at Wuthering Shites. Parker repressed a snort, turning it into a clearing of his throat.

 

“Nah, just an old, stone manor, kiddo,” he said, shrugging. “But it’s _definitely_ got a castle-vibe.”

 

“Like the castle from _Beauty and the Beast_ , before Belle broke the witch’s spell!” Ellie exclaimed, seeming excited, rather than scared at the prospect of a possibly-cursed house because, _of course_ , she was.

 

Wade loved his kid fiercely. Loved everything about her, but especially that kind, adventurous, _fearless_ heart.

 

Parker laughed, low and long. “Well, I guess it is, at that! Kinda dark and spooky-looking. A little gloomy.” He sighed and shrugged. “But with a smart, sweet, pretty little princess like you around, I’m sure this place is gonna be a whole lot sunnier and happier.”

 

Ellie was beaming so bright, now, Wade almost had to squint to look at her. “No, _I’m_ not the princess who’s gonna break the curse!” Though Ellie apparently found it hilarious that Parker might think that.

 

“You’re _not_?” Parker managed to sound aggrieved and sad, even though he was still smiling at Ellie with the sort of instant-fondness she inspired even in Weas and Fat Gandalf. And never mind Booth, who pretty much lost his mind whenever Wade’s and Ellie’s paths crossed with his. In the wake of the big bruiser’s infatuation with Ellie, suddenly, the fact that the sometime bounty-hunter/soldier-of-fortune had five cats, a puppy, and at least seven hundred rabbits had made a _lot_ more sense. “Then . . . who’s gonna break our curse? Who’s gonna be our plucky, brave, and big-hearted heroine, and save the Beast and his friends?”

 

Still giggling, Ellie pushed her springy, dark curls back out of her face. “ _Daddy_ _is_!” she crowed in a kindly, but _duh!_ tone, practically chortling.

 

She buried her warm little face in Wade’s neck as she continued to laugh—more at Parker’s apparent ignorance of how this fairy tale was slated to end, than at the idea of her daddy being anyone’s savior-princess—and Wade met Parker’s amused and wry gaze for a few moments, smirking and shaking his head.

 

“Oh, he is, is he?” Parker asked Ellie, but was still holding Wade’s gaze, those eyes flickering between golden-brown and gray.

 

“Yep!” Ellie turned her face just enough to see Parker and let her giggles taper off. “Daddy can do _anything_ , Pete! He was in the army back in Canada! And Uncle Jack says that Daddy used to be a professional bad-ass!”

 

“Eleanor Camacho-Wilson!” Wade leaned down to look Ellie in the face and catch her eyes. She grinned up at him innocently—a bit _too_ innocently, even for Ellie—and shrugged. “That’s some salty language for such a sweet mouth.”

 

“But Uncle Jack _said_.”

 

“And what did I tell you about repeating the things Uncle Jack says when you’re around other people?”

 

Ellie sighed, small, but chastened. “ _Not to_ , unless I run it by you, first . . . but this thing didn’t even have the F-word in it! Not even once!”

 

Wade rolled his eyes and heaved a sigh himself, while Parker laughed again, rich and rolling. And it was certainly a contagious laugh, as Wade had to work to keep his lips from even twitching. Ellie, under no such constraints, began giggling again. Evan was merely watching them all, his gaze ticking between them with keen consideration.

 

“My Ellie-vator’s a silly, little giggle-puss, sometimes, so you’ll have to excuse her,” Wade told Parker, kissing Ellie’s crown and draping her over his shoulder like a laughing duffle bag of laundry. She only laughed harder, her small arms flailing behind Wade’s back.

 

“Ah, sure,” Parker managed around his chuckles, scratching the back of his neck. “Far be it from me to deny my, ah, plucky, brave, and big-hearted heroine anything.”

 

Wade rolled his eyes again when Parker’s waggly brows shot up, but allowed himself a tiny smile. Not the gruesome one he reserved for the random assholes who stared at him, or the painful grimace he saved for authority figures. Nor, even, the _real_ smile, uncertain and a little sad, that Weas, Booth, and Fat Gandalf occasionally saw.

 

And certainly _not_ the unreserved _beam_ that he reserved for _Ellie_ _only_.

 

But whatever it was, it was genuine and well-meant, and Parker seemed to take it that way, that golden-brown light back in his shifting eyes.

 

Evan’s gaze was still wandering among the three of them as if trying to solve some sort of perplexing logic puzzle.

 

“C’mon, you two,” Parker said easily, turning toward the house and waving Wade and Ellie forward. “Lemme take you on the grand tour. We can talk about the job requirements and salary, and all that good stuff while Evan and I show you around.”

 

Which . . . kind of sounded like Parker wanted to hire him. Which was weird because . . . no one ever _wanted_ to hire Wade, even if they sometimes went ahead and did.

 

Wade straightened Ellie out in his arms, and she grinned at him happily and gave him a thumbs-up. He grinned back and kissed her cheek.

 

[Well done,] White commended sedately. [That was the best first impression you’ve ever made. Perhaps you should always bring Ellie with you to interviews.]

 

 _Perhaps_ , Wade thought, eyes automatically raking over his probable-employer. His stride was confident but easy, his posture straight and relaxed. His shoulders weren’t wide, but they looked strong, and his back tapered rather elegantly down to a trim waist and. . . .

 

{ _Wow_ , his ass must be hella-spectacular if it looks this good even in square-bear dad-trou.} Yellow groaned softly and Wade had a brief moment of absolute: _What the fuck?_ Because . . . hadn’t Yellow just been waxing poetically—for Yellow—about how much it missed pussy?

 

{Eh. Holes’re holes, pal. And a killer ass is a killer ass.}

 

Wade huffed, but couldn’t argue with that reasoning. Then, he quickly whipped his gaze back up when Parker glanced over his shoulder, a small, amused smile hovering at his mouth.

 

“You coming, Wade?”

 

{In a perfect world? Oh, _fuck_ , yeah, Professor. . . .} Yellow groaned, a fairly unsubtle and powerful flush of heat rushing across Wade’s skin as he dropped his gaze to the back of Parker’s moccasins.

 

“Sure thing, Professor Parker. Lead the way,” Wade mumbled, hastening after his prospective employer, and said employer’s nephew. Parker strode briskly, but unhurriedly up the walk, already telling Wade and Ellie some of the property’s history. Wade listened with half an ear as he and Ellie gazed up at the looming house. Her little arms tightened around his neck as they climbed the shallow front steps and crossed the threshold into the house.

 

When they did Evan, a few steps behind and to the left of Parker, and a few feet ahead of Wade and Ellie, glanced back at them, his eyes seeming to glitter too brightly for the dimness of the empty front vestibule. Yellow tensed as did Wade, expecting that lock-pick and buzzing/crawling sensation.

 

But Evan’s hooded gaze lingered for a few seconds before that bright glitter dimmed, then flickered out almost completely. Then the kid was facing forward again, hands shoved into the pockets of his skinny jeans. His shoulders were slumped and his posture so terrible, even Yellow huffed and muttered something about asshole kids and their lack of self-respect.

 

Then Wade was swept along in Parker’s exhaustive tour and slightly pedantic travelogue of the place, looking around with wide eyes that missed little.

 

Inside the mind-room, Yellow hovered watchfully, tense and wary, near the blocked door. White, however, merely poked through half-buried memories and the bullshit detritus of a life poorly-lived, and kept its own brooding counsel.

 

TBC


	3. Tofutti, Tiaras, and Hazard-Pay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“I, uh . . . was a lieutenant.” He paused and considered_ not _telling Parker, since it had no direct bearing on this job, but decided it was better to be honest now, and possibly lose a chance at the job, than lose it down the road because Parker’d dug into his employee’s past and felt lied-to. “And I didn’t retire, I, uh, was discharged. Not honorably.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes/CW: Um . . . no warnings for this chapter. I know, right? What the _ass_??

**Chapter Three: Tofutti, Tiaras, and Hazard-Pay**

 

“. . . and, last but not least,” Parker said dryly, an hour and more after the tour started. Ellie, all wowed-out, was asleep in Wade’s arms and Evan had wandered off at some point between the ballroom and the in-door pool. Now, Parker let the three of them into the decent-sized cottage at some distance behind the house and down the other side of the gentle incline on which Hallam Hall sat. “The groundskeeper’s cottage.”

 

Following Parker into the dim, slightly musty space, Wade looked around with wide eyes, despite spending almost long enough on this tour that Yellow was starting to hum the theme from _Gilligan’s Island_ and _White_ was actually starting to get bored.

 

The cottage featured one large central room that was furnished with the basics of couch, coffee table, and some mismatched, but comfortable-looking chairs. A short hall near the back of the room and opposite the front door, led to several doors that slightly ajar. To Wade’s left was an archway that led to a modern, if not overly spacious kitchen. The appliances all looked new, from fridge to a Keurig coffeemaker that Yellow instantly began to drool over and a pasta maker that made White wibble.

 

To Wade’s right, stretched the rest of the main room, and it terminated in another archway that led into a small, unfurnished sunroom. White, overcast light poured in, giving the entire cottage a dream-like, but steely series of greys and blacks, browns and beiges. Even the hard wood floors—recently redone, if Wade was any judge of these things—seemed to gleam a cool and pensive pearl-gray, as well as with the natural warmth of the amber-colored wood.

 

“. . . not much, yet, I know, but . . . I figured it’d be better to under-decorate rather than over, since anyone moving in’d likely wanna do the place up in their own style. With their own stuff,” Parker was saying as Wade stepped into the cottage proper, still looking around. There was a big brick fireplace, clean and perfect-looking, and for a few moments, he imagined himself and Ellie in front of that fireplace, doing her homework, or maybe playing Candyland or something . . . maybe with an actual fire lit. And . . . pictures on the mantel.

 

{Like a Norman Rockwell painting, or Currier & Ives, or some shit,} Yellow mused, with a surprising lack of disapproval. White merely gave the impression of smiling wistfully.

 

“That is, of course, if you and Ellie are interested in living on the grounds. I completely understand if you prefer to have some distance and breathing-room from work.” Parker shut the door behind them, and on some of the overcast daylight. But there was still plenty coming in from the sunroom. Wade turned to face the professor, steady and slow, so as not to wake Ellie. Parker was watching him with eyes that seemed all gray in the still and unshifting light. “Hell, I don’t even know if you’re planning on taking the job, yet, Wade.”

 

Wade dropped his gaze for a moment, to the soft, safe relief of Ellie’s springy curls. Then he looked up at Parker again, meeting that chrome-somber stare candidly.

 

“Look, Professor,” he began uncertainly, but calmly. Parker quirked that crooked, dimple-y smile, and even though the light didn’t shift, those eyes did: chrome-blue-brown-gold. And while Wade and the Boxes were still processing _that_ little bit of weirdness, Parker stepped closer, just within Wade’s personal space. Close enough that Wade could smell his scent: some sort of old-fashioned, dadly aftershave, like Old Spice; the aged-dry vanilla-musk scent of old books; and . . . something Wade could only label _wind and high places_. Something slightly ozone-y and a mix of many wheres.

 

Despite his easy placidity and lake-deep stillness, Professor Peter Parker’s scent spoke of nothing so much as _movement_.

 

Of _flying_.

 

Quite suddenly, thanks in part to Yellow, Wade was listing toward Parker and inhaling deeply, even as his eyes started to flutter shut. White, however, saved him from the indignity of telegraphing Yellow’s far-from-professional interest in their potential employer.

 

“Ah, look, Professor,” Wade tried again in a voice that was rough with repressed shaking. Parker’s smile widened and he stepped closer, still. Not as close as Yellow might have liked, but close enough that that intriguing, wild-but-safe scent wrapped around Wade’s brain.

 

“Please,” Parker said in his low, warm, marrow-churning tone, his eyes slanting more toward gold than brown. “Please, call me Pete. Or Peter. Even my students don’t call me _professor_. It’s like my PhDs don’t even exist, in all honesty.”

 

Wade smiled a little at this admission. “Uh. Okay, um. Peter,” he said, only for that quirky smile to deepen, widen, and turn almost hopeful.

 

“And I . . . hope you’re not offended that I’ve been calling you _Wade_ , all this time?”

 

“Oh—no, not at all, Prof—Peter,” Wade said, flushing and looking down. His messy-pale hair curtained his face—or so he hoped—saving Parker from the sight of a butter-face made even more unattractive by having gone a blotchy pink. “People say _Mr. Wilson_ , and I flinch and look around for my old man.”

 

In the thoughtful silence that followed, Wade kicked himself. “Um. Anyway, _Wade’s_ fine with me. I’m just Wade. Haven’t been anything else since the army.”

 

“What was your rank when you retired?” Parker asked curiously. Wade sighed, a yawning pit opening at the bottom of his suddenly churning stomach.

 

“I, uh . . . was a lieutenant.” He paused and considered _not_ telling Parker, since it had no direct bearing on this job, but decided it was better to be honest now, and possibly lose a chance at the job, than lose it down the road because Parker’d dug into his employee’s past and felt lied-to. “And I didn’t retire, I, uh, was discharged. Not honorably.”

 

Another silence stretched between them, longer than the previous one, and somehow . . . deeper.

 

“Was . . . was the dishonorable discharge without merit?” Parker asked softly. Wade’s smile as he met those grey-again eyes, was bitter and bland.

 

“No, it wasn’t.”

 

Parker frowned, for once looking away before Wade could. Down at Ellie, who was starting to snore just a bit in Wade’s arms.

 

“We all have things in our past that we’re less than proud of, Wade. Things that we did and maybe wish we hadn’t. Things that made it necessary, even, to start life over from less-than-zero.” Parker’s frown twitched unhappily and Wade nodded, certain this was the brush-off that always came after he revealed his discharge status.

 

But then Parker’s shifting eyes met his, gray-blue and intent. Unreadable, but for a sad sort of kinship.

 

“I, ah . . . I know, more than I’d like, about starting over. About how tough it is to build yourself into something newer and hopefully better when the world seems bound and determined to keep you from changing . . . from _forgetting_. I _know_. . . .” Parker looked down again, his waggly eyebrows furrowing as he sighed and shook his head. Wade held his breath for nearly a minute, until Parker looked up again, this time at Ellie. Gold-gray-gold, those changeable eyes flickered fast and almost urgent. “I also know what it’s like to suddenly have motivation and meaning. A reason to be better than what you were. Something and someone that’s worth the pain of shedding that old self like a snake-skin.”

 

Those flickering eyes ticked to Wade’s, grim but earnest.

 

“I don’t care what some young, dumb lieutenant did to get himself kicked out of the army however long ago. I _do_ , however, care about _Wade W. Wilson_ , a man who’s clearly trying to start over for the most important reason anyone ever could,” Parker said firmly, glancing at Ellie again and smiling. “I care and I believe whole-heartedly in paying things forward. _Especially_ second chances. So, the job’s yours, if you want it, as is the cottage.” He waved a hand at the room around them, his eyes never leaving Wade’s. “Yours and Ellie’s. And I’m not gonna lie. I’m hoping you _do_ want the job. I’m _also not_ gonna lie and say I don’t like the idea of you—of _you and Ellie_ —being here and brightening this place up. Evan and I tend to brood ourselves into reclusivity if left to our own devices for too long. And it has been. _Far too long_ , that is.”

 

Parker’s smile turned a bit hapless again, but sincerely so, this time, not the kind of personality-camouflage designed to charm and ensnare. His eyes were shading toward ordinary brown again, warm and kind.

 

“Professor Parker . . . Peter,” Wade said solemnly, quietly, and this time, the flicker in Parker’s eyes was all feeling: fear-hopelessness-resignation. As if he was afraid _Wade_ was going to turn down the offer of a decent job and a nice, safe place for he and Ellie to live.

 

Yellow snorted and White sighed. Wade, meanwhile, quirked a grin at Parker—not the dangerous one that used to get him laid, back when he was hot, but the daffy one that’d once upon a time made his mother laugh and _still_ made Ellie laugh.

 

“I’m yours whenever you want me,” he rumbled, firm and certain, only for Parker’s dark eyes to light up, literally, shifting through their repertoire of colors—at least the ones Wade had seen so far—before settling on a gold that flickered the same pearl-gray as the overcast light of the day. The half-lidded once-over he gave Wade was arch and almost acquisitive, his smile absently sly.

 

“Is that so, Wade W. Wilson?” Parker murmured, and Wade hastily replayed the last thing he said. Then Wade was turning pink again, bordering on magenta.

 

“I—I—uh.” Wade’s stammers stopped as if his throat had been cut. White sighed again, Yellow groaned, and Wade . . . was suddenly too breathless and mortified to do much of _anything_ for several seconds. He just stood gaping at Parker—at _Peter_ —whose expressive eyebrows were decidedly high on his forehead. That unremarkable face was lightly flushed and those modest, but curving lips parted slightly. Wade wasn’t sure where the strong and almost irresistible urge to lean in and steal a not-so-quick kiss came from: himself or Yellow. But it came from _somewhere_. And White even made a disgusted and alarmed noise.

 

[Please don’t,] the more sensible Box begged desperately. [Not when things are going so unexpectedly well for us . . . don’t mess this up, you two. Keep it in our pants, as I assure you, the last thing Professor Parker wants is to be accosted by a man—an _employee_ —he barely knows and on whom he’s taken a significant, but unwarranted chance.]

 

{Oh, he’d want it by the time _we_ were done with him,} Yellow purred confidently as they stared down into Peter’s expectant, almost challenging eyes. {We’d give him the best minute and twenty-six seconds of his button-down life.}

 

White snorted, but calmed down, knowing that if Yellow was making jokes, he was willing to back off. For the moment, at least. For once, the Box was being as reasonable as his counterpart, leaving Wade to flounder alone in his surely unreciprocated attraction.

 

But then, Peter’s smile flickered like his gaze, hapless-wry-hapless, and believable but for the keen awareness in those eyes. “And if I . . . wanted you right now?”

 

And that too-innocent-to-be-real tone had Yellow sitting up with renewed interest, even as White gaped then muttered to himself with incredulity, because Peter Parker _couldn’t_ be flirting with them.

 

Wade flushed and looked away, down at Peter’s shirt. He had an actual pocket-protector in the right breast pocket, with actual pens in it.

 

{Even really smart people sometimes have bad taste. Case in point,} Yellow noted with deep satisfaction, and not just about Peter’s fashion-choices. {Or maybe it’s pheromones or whatever. Who knows? Who _cares_? Parker’s got a hankering for the D, _Wilson_ -style!}

 

 _Maybe he does_ , Wade conceded without a shred of belief, but Yellow was too horny and excited to notice. _But considering that this is the best chance I’ve had to straighten out my life and give_ Ellie _the life she deserves . . . I’m not gonna do anything to jeopardize that._

 

{But—}

 

“I, uh . . . was kinda hoping tomorrow morning would be soon enough?” Wade mumbled, his brow furrowing and his dishwater hair curtaining his face as he angled his head down, and continued to focus on the pocket protector. For some reason, however, this seemed to only rev Yellow’s easily-revved engine harder and faster, and Wade had to shift his gaze to the wall behind Peter’s shoulder. “To—to start, I mean. I, um, I promised the princess I’d take her for celebratory Tofutti if today went well, and. . . .”

 

“Oh! Yeah, right.” Peter laughed, a touch nervous and self-mocking—a touch _disappointed_ , or so Yellow seemed to think. Then the older man was rocking back and forth, on his heels and toes. “When a fella makes a promise to his best gal, he oughta _keep it_ , come Hell or high water.”

 

“Yeah, uh. . . .” Wade chuckled anxiously, darting a glance up at Peter’s face. The other man was staring off toward the hallway that led to the cottage’s other rooms. One of them, assuredly, was a bedroom . . . a realization that made Wade start to sweat. “I mean, I can get started later this afternoon, after Ellie’s had her lunch and, uh, Tofutti—shouldn’t be more than another two hours, or so, then I’m your man!”

 

Peter’s smile flickered again, wry-wistful-wry, and his brow furrowed as he glanced at Wade. He opened his mouth to reply, closed it, then snorted quietly, his smile returning to its usual all-purpose, charming haplessness.

 

“I just hired you on, here, Wade. I’m not gonna start cracking the whip before you’ve even had a chance to get your bearings,” he said, shoving his hands in his pockets, and rocking back and forth once more. Those eyes, somewhere between brown and blue—hazel?—ticked to Wade’s face again. “You and Ellie go celebrate. Enjoy the rest of the day and the Tofutti.”

 

Wade searched Peter’s gaze for a few moments before nodding. “Thanks. Uh, boss.”

 

“Just Peter. Please.”

 

“Right. Peter,” Wade obeyed and Peter’s smile widened. He cleared his throat and shrugged.

 

“Okay. That’s, uh. Okay. I guess I’ll leave you to it, then—oh, uh—” Peter dug his phone out of his left pocket and unlocked it with his pin pattern, then looked up at Wade again. “If you need an advance on your first paycheck, just gimme your account and routing numbers, and I’ll transfer it in right now.”

 

Wade blinked. “Uh. An advance?”

 

“Yep. I . . . I don’t know your financial situation and I don’t wanna presume, but if you could do with an advance, I’m more than happy to give it to you.” Peter’s expression was solemn, now, and earnest. Almost painfully so, in a way that reminded Wade of the little girl still sleeping in his arms.

 

“I . . . that’s real kind of ya, Peter, but I couldn’t—”

 

“You _could_ ,” Peter said, still solemn and earnest. Wade found himself smiling.

 

“Peter, she’s a six years old. I’m taking her for burgers and Tofutti . . . not to the Russian Tea Room. We’ll be okay.”

 

Peter’s brows drew together again. “Y’know, the more you refuse, the more I wanna give you the advance. Plus, some hazard-pay, to boot.”

 

“Hazard-pay?”

 

“Eh.” Peter shrugged. “Evan spotted a wasps’ nest on the south side eaves of the garage. Those little fuckers are _evil_. Have fun with that, but take the hazard-pay.”

 

Wade snorted a laugh as Peter shuddered melodramatically. “You’re gonna be a pain in the ass about this advance till I take it, aren’tcha?”

 

It slipped out before Wade could censor himself, but Peter was laughing heartily even before White could foist his near-instantaneous anxiety on their psyche.

 

“Yes, I am. You know me so well, already.” Peter’s waggly brows danced and twitched, his eyes flickering too many colors for Wade to settle on any one. “Look, use the advance whenever you want, however you want, for Tofutti or tiaras. I just . . . I want you to have it. In case you need it.”

 

Wade was about to politely turn Peter down again when the other man’s eyes drifted to Ellie, then back up to Wade’s pointedly.

 

Finally, after meeting that gaze for almost a minute, Wade sighed his capitulation and freed his arm to dig out his own crappy, prepaid phone.

 

“A _royal_ pain,” he muttered, then sighed again as he opened his banking app. He could just see Peter’s smug, triumphant smile from the corners of his eyes as he accessed his account and routing numbers. “One that lingers.”

 

“What can I say?” Peter’s voice was dry and suspiciously inflection-free. “I trust you not to skip town and flee to Monte Carlo on two weeks salary advance. And, anyway, yours is an ass I’ll happily be a lingering pain in, Wade Wilson.”

 

Wade’s eyes went saucer-wide for a few moments, but by the time he dared a glance at Peter’s face, the other man was frowning down at his own banking app. Even the Boxes were struck utterly silent for a few seconds.

 

“Uhhhh,” Wade said breathlessly, his face gone fuschia. The corners of Peter’s wide, mobile mouth twitched and even White was having a tough time ignoring Yellow’s hooting and _I told ya so_ s.

 

“Ready whenever you are, Wade.” Peter’s blue-brown-whatever eyes flicked briefly to Wade’s with flawless innocence. Wade, unaccountably flushing deeper and hotter, dropped his eyes to his screen, and stammered out his account number in a voice that cracked, then his routing number in a voice that creaked.

 

But at least Yellow’s whooping and White’s groaning mostly drowned out the embarrassingly eighth-grade sounds coming from his mouth. Mostly.

 

#

 

“Heyya, Stinkerbell.”

 

When Ellie’s eyes fluttered open, they instantly locked on Wade’s face and she smiled, bright as a summer-sun.

 

“I fell asleep,” she announced around a huge yawn and Wade, sitting on the edge of the bed, chuckled.

 

“That, ya did, Ellie-Belly. Good thing your bed was so close. I just dumped ya in it like a sack of potatoes,” he said, smiling. Ellie blinked and sat up, looking around her with wide eyes. She took in the sparsely-furnished, but decently-sized bedroom, possessed of a big, mostly empty bookshelf in one corner, a child’s desk across from it, and catty-corner, the door to the room. Near that was the door to the closet.

 

In the final corner, of course, was Ellie’s bed. Between the bed and the bookcase was a large window with eastern exposure, and lemon-yellow curtains that sported varicolored balloons. The walls were a soothing sort of deep blue—as were the walls in Wade’s bedroom—that put Wade in mind of Parker’s eyes.

 

“ _My_ room?” Ellie asked, turning her hopeful, happy gaze on Wade, who sat on the edge of her bed.

 

“Yes, indeed, _ma’am_ ,” Wade reassured her. “I figure, rather than sleeping in the car or crashing on Uncle Jack’s couch, maybe . . . since Peter had this nice groundskeeper’s cottage just _sittin’ here_ , with no one living in it . . . and since I _am_ the groundskeeper, now. . . .”

 

“YOU GOT THE JOB!!!!!!” Ellie exclaimed, launching herself at Wade, her small, but strong arms wrapping around his neck. Laughing, he hugged her back.

 

“Yep, babycakes, I did!”

 

“I _knew_ you would! Because you’re the best daddy and the best person in the world, and Pete is really nice and smart _and_ he can tell that you’re the awesomest person he could hire!” Ellie leaned back to kiss Wade right on the bridge of his nose. “And we can have Tofutti! And maybe even get a kitty?”

 

Chuckling again, as Ellie bounced in his arms, Wade winked. “If Peter’s okay with a cat in this place, then so’m I, angel-pie.”

 

“YAY!”

 

He grinned and pulled Ellie close for another hug, one she gave without hesitation or restraint, as always.

 

“You _did it_ , Daddy,” she sighed happily. “Just like you said.”

 

“Of course. When I make a promise to my princess, I keep it.” _At least as of today._

 

Even all the previous failures had lead up to having this sweet and victorious moment with Ellie, so . . . perhaps they’d been worth it.

 

And really, _this_ job was looking better than any he’d ever had. Including the military.

 

“I _like_ it here, Daddy,” Ellie decided with another sigh, warm and soft in Wade’s ear and hair. “I like Pete and Evan, and even though the mansion is angry and sad and full of screams, I like _it_ , too.”

 

“Screams?” Gone cold, Wade leaned back a bit to look at Ellie, who was smiling a small, slightly sad smile.

 

“Yeah.” Ellie’s brow furrowed as if she was trying to find the right words to describe what she meant. Finally, she shrugged and pouted. “All the memories and stuff. The things that happened that no one remembers. They _want_ us to hear them. They don’t wanna be _forgotten_ anymore. And they’re trying real hard _not_ to scream, but they don’t know how else to be heard. Evan doesn’t listen anymore and Pete can’t hear ‘em _at all_ , I guess.”

 

If there was a response to that, or a follow-up question, Wade didn’t know what it was. But that cold, grim feeling settled at the base of his spine and the forefront of his mind.

 

“Sweetie,” Wade began quietly, White and Yellow both perking up and focusing on Ellie. Both Boxes were ready to pack up and get gone at a moment’s notice if anything about this place caused Ellie even a nanosecond of unrest. But Ellie smiled again, bright and relieved.

 

“But _this_ place is _quiet_ ,” she said with great approval, looking around her room with wide, almost dazzled eyes. “There’re _echoes_ , and stuff, but they’re nice ones. Kind and faded and soft.” And with that, Ellie stared into the corner of her new room, where the bookshelf stood, squinting a little. “I can’t see ‘em or hear ‘em too good, but they feel nice and warm. Like hugs and quilts and sunshine.”

 

After following Ellie’s gaze to the corner and seeing nothing, Wade sighed, but kept his smile glued on. It wasn’t the first time this’d happened. Ellie’d _always_ had a habit of staring off into corners and empty spaces, and smiling. The staring was something Carm’d also done, but almost always with looks of fright and anxiety, rather than Ellie’s curious or delighted smiles.

 

As long as whatever Ellie was seeing made her happy—as long as it didn’t put that constant fear that’d lingered in Carm’s big, dark eyes, in their _daughter’s_ big, dark eyes—Wade was willing to give Wuthering Shites and its angry-sad-screaming manor house a chance. Though he’d be sure to keep careful eyes on his precious angel for the duration of their time there.

 

“Well, that’s, uh . . . real good, I guess. Good that ya like this place,” he said with more warmth than nonchalance, meeting Ellie’s bright, brown eyes again. He made sure to hold that gaze solemnly. “But if that _ever_ changes, Baby Girl, the _moment_ it does, for whatever reason, you _tell me_. Ya hear?” When Ellie frowned, but nodded, Wade held up his left hand, pinky-out. “Okay. Good stuff, honey-bunny. Pinky-swear?”

 

“Pinky-swear,” Ellie promised, locking her tiny pinky around Wade’s and nodding just as solemnly. Then, that expression turned into another smile as Wade grinned at her and kissed the tip of her nose.

 

“There’s my sweet little Stinkerbella,” Wade murmured into her curls as he hugged her again, tight-tight-tight. “Love ya belches and squelches, kiddo.”

 

“Love you back, squeezes and kneeses, Daddy.” Ellie giggled, kissing Wade’s scarred cheek with a smack. Chuckling, Wade stood up with Ellie in his arms then put her down. “Go on and tinkle if ya gotta, honey. Then I’mma take you out to lunch for a burger bigger than your head. And then, if ya still got room, Tofutti!”

 

“YAY!” Ellie bounced out of the room squeeing and giggling. “Tofutti! Tofutti! Tofutti!”

 

“First door on the left, kiddo!” Wade called after her, laughing again. A few moments later, he heard the door to the bathroom shut.

 

Wade drifted out into the hall and back to the main room. After a moment spent staring at the fireplace, he decided that since he had his advance—and some hazard-pay, apparently, because Peter was a soft touch—he’d spend some of it on a television and blu-ray player, and when he and Ellie got back from lunch, he’d set them up so they could watch her favorite movie, _Big Hero 6_ , while they ate dinner.

 

In the meantime, he took out his phone and dialed Weas’s number. It went straight to voicemail because Weas was probably still asleep. He, of course, kept the average bartender’s hours.

 

“Hey-hey, moose-knuckle,” Wade drawled after the beep, “I got the job. Try not to shit your pants from surprise. I start tomorrow, first thing. Whoever tipped you about this groundskeeper position deserves a blowjob. And _I don’t_ mean the drink.” Wade paused as the toilet flushed and the door to the bathroom opened. “Gimme a call when ya wake up, Jack. Later. _Didja wash your hands, kiddo?_ ”

 

“Uhhhhh—” Ellie hesitated guiltily. Wade huffed, glancing at her over his shoulder. That too-innocent, shit-eating grin was more Wade, than Carm, but on her pretty, little face, it was adorable. Not that Wade let that sway him. Much.

 

“That means the answer’s _no_. Clean hands or no Tofutti,” he said firmly, and Ellie groaned, but marched back into the bathroom. When he heard the faucet turn on, Wade added: “And use soap! Those hands better smell like soap when you’re done, little missy!”

 

“Daaaaaa-deeeee!”

 

Smiling, Wade scanned his contacts until he came across **Parker, Peter B** , and had to fight the sudden urge to dial the number. Just to see if he’d put it into contacts correctly, of course.

 

In the end, he closed the app and locked his phone, ignoring Yellow’s grumbling and White’s measured approval.

 

Peter probably didn’t even _like_ Tofutti, anyway. And _Evan’d_ probably just glare sullenly into space throughout lunch like a human wet-blanket. . . .

 

There was a light tug on the hem of Wade’s jacket. “Okay, Daddy, clean hands!”

 

Putting his phone away, Wade swung a beaming Ellie up into his arms and kissed her cheek. “They’d _better_ be, Grimy Magoo!” But he was smiling. He could smell the soap so strongly, he doubted she’d rinsed it all off.

 

A quick, single-handed pat-down revealed his wallet, still in his pocket, as well as his personal keys and the ones Peter had given him to various places on the property, including the cottage. Once reassured that all was where it should be, he strode to the front door. Ellie tucked her head under his chin with a contented sigh as they stepped into the bright afternoon. “C’mon, kiddo. Tofutti waits for no Wilsons.”

 

And, for the next few hours, anyway, Peter Parker, Evan Sabahnur, and Wuthering Shites were forgotten.

 

TBC

**Author's Note:**

> Note: Title taken from [the Alfred Tennyson poem of the same name](http://www.poemtree.com/poems/DarkHouse.htm).


End file.
